Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Ruefully. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Ruefully Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Samantha Young,Wentworth Dillon, 4Th Earl Of Roscommon,Cassandra Clare,Wanda E. Brunstetter,Shelly Crane for you to enjoy and share.
Tears spilled won my cheeks as I felt renewed disappointment. "You keep hurting me."
He had the decency to look guilty. "I don't mean to.
We weep and laugh, as we see others do.
Regret is such a pointless emotion, don't you agree?
She sat for a few minutes in the company of her bitter regrets ...
Beck, we gotta go."
"Ok." She made smooch lips to the mirror and then smiled at me. "It's shameful to look this fabulous isn't it?" she said, making me laugh.
"Absolutely, just shameful.
Remorse is the echo of a lost virtue.
Frowning, I glazed
Look at what you've done,' Sanguine said, shaking his head with mock severity. 'You have foiled out insidious little plot. You have emerged triumphant and victorious. Curse you, do-gooders. Curse you.
There is a certain pleasure in weeping
In shame there is no comfort but to be beyond all bounds of shame.
Those are not the tears of repentance! ... Self-loathing is not sorrow. Yet it is good, for it marks a step in the way home, and in the father's arms the prodigal forgets the self he abominates.
Only a battle lost is sadder than a battle won.
Guilt stirs me, but only to self-pity.
Regrets are for wusses.
Regret, is usually a waste of time. As is gloating
regret with dignity and grace.
While master of myself, I'll not permit
The soothing beauty of a tear to roll
Along the crooked contours of this nose.
There's a sublimity in tears; and I
Would not debase them;
I would never turn
Something sublime to the ridiculous.
I am caught in a Mark Twain shame spiral.
You preserve your shame but you kill your glory.
He felt both shame and pride, and over it all a bitter disappointment, in himself and in the time and circumstance that made him possible.
You betrayed me, but after all those years I discover, my tears have wiped the slate clean ...
Regret is a short, evocative and achingly beautiful word: an elegy to lost possibilities even in its brief annunciation.
Tears fell from my eyes - yes, weak and foolish as it now appears to me, I wept for my departed youth; and for that beauty of which the faithful mirror too plainly assured me, no remnant existed.
Of all the grief's that harass the distressed; sure the most bitter is a scornful jest.
Indignantly, as if I'd just invited everyone back to mine for heroin and
Regrets and recriminations only hurt your soul.
Disappointment and feebleness imprint upon us a cowardly and valetudinarian virtue.
Every word I put down, I put down with tears, with bitter blood, with sour gall, well mixed and blended with shame and guilt.
Regrets are so far from reality.
Shame is Prides cloke.
Parade your pallor in iniquity.
Regret is poison that kills the soul.
He felt empty, broken, defeated.
I get a small quiver of shame in my stomach whenever I remember it.
...shame spreads through his body like a drop of red dye in water.
I praise loudly. I blame softly.
No more tears now; I will think upon revenge.
Regret is a waste of time.
So much to rue, but to what end? All unlived lives cancel one another out.
A smile of remembrance of lost times.
is more haunting than regret.
Pity is treason.
They congratulated themselves and went back out to their sodas and Chex mix, leaving me in front of the mirror, a toddler's fussed-over Barbie abandoned in the sandbox. I blinked back my tears and forced myself to look in the mirror. Looking
Grief is a species of idleness.
Alas, I had always loved sorrow and grief, but only for myself, for myself; for them I wept in my pity. I stretched out my arms to them in my despair, accusing, cursing, and despising myself. I told them that I had done all this, I alone, that I had brought them corruption, contagion, and lies!
Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?
Nothing may be more selfish than remorse ...
And we cried for the years we have lost to hate, bitterness and self-destruction.
If i wasn't an accident mustn't I be a crushing disappointment?
Take it from Richard, poor and lame, What's begun in anger ends in shame.
I wear my mistakes like badges of honor, and I celebrate them.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.
but I could feel the jealous eyes of the steexin hangers-on still in line, and I lament to report that it boosted my spirits some), he
With the flat smile of the deeply inconvenienced.
I was briefly bitter.
Umbed by disappointment and betrayal, like a child who had been awakened suddenly from a summer dream about christmas morning.
The mourning of inadequacy is a weeping that catches the attention of God ... The happiest day of my life was when I realized that my own ability, my own goodness, my own morality was insufficient in the sight of God; and I publicly and openly acknowledged my need of Christ.
Regret is a self-inflicted emotional scar.
The pain was greater than the shame
Dany nibbled at an onion and reflected ruefully on the faithlessness of men.
With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
How unhappy is he who cannot forgive himself.
Regrets are illuminations come too late.
What you should really be sorry for," he continued, "is that for the rest of my life, I'll have to avoid wine cellars to keep from thinking about you."
"Why? Was kissing me that bad?"
A devil-solf whisper. "No sweetheart. It was that good.
He who know most grieves most for wasted time.
Guilt is glorious when it's well earned.
No more tears now; I will think about revenge.
Regret is just life's aftertaste.
Regret is a useless emotion.
... determined to enjoy her luxury of grief uncomforted.
Regret is the most tiresome of companions.
I don't do it on purpose."
"Really?" He didn't believe me.
"No. I don't." I held his granite gaze. "I don't like it when they cry. It's why I schedule these first dates for so late in the evening.
Regret fills my already crowded heart.
I have never been able to
meet anyone without an accompaniment of painful
smiles, the buffoonery of defeat.
Will you cry? Will you miss me?
When failing spectacularly the trick is to employ an inverted Schadenfreude. Take ownership of your misfortune.
Today,' said Lymond, 'if you must know, I don't like living at all. But that's just immaturity boggling at the sad face of failure. Tomorrow I'll be bright as a bedbug again.
And I confess that, like a child, I cry. Ah, self-pity; I think we are at our most honest and sincere when we feel sorry for ourselves.
I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.
Reckless youth makes rueful age.
Now if I appear to be carefree it's only to camouflage my sadness. In order to keep my pride I try to cover the hurt with a show of gladness.
Only amnesiacs have no regrets.
Revenge is not sweet; it is gloomy and a waste of time.
Was it so wrong to relish the feeling anyway? To enjoy the way it lingered, leaving her with a wistful awareness, a pleasant unease, as if she had forgotten to do something? Yes, it probably was wrong. But she did not wish it away.
Nostalgia is the only acceptable form of sadness.
I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry
I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart
God knows what its name was
that tears started to my eyes.
I winked at my own littleness, as people do at their own faults.
Regret is just a waste of time for fools.
Vengeance is a lazy form of grief.
Tears,' they would sneer, 'are the indulgences of those who haven't suffered enough.' To
I was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.
It is foolishness to want what never was or will never will be, lament the passage of time, and live in fearfulness of an uncertain future. The moods generated by regret including depression and self-loathing congeal in our sentient consciousness creating the painful landscape of the self.
No one can tell if I'm laughing or weeping.
I wonder myself.
This is how the Dauntless mourn: by chasing grief into the oblivion of alcohol and leaving it there.
I don't have any shame.
I had failed him; I knew it. But I could do no more. It was beyond my strength.
That night, I think, he explored the uttermost depths of his loneliness.
For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear.
No excuses. No apologies. No Regrets
The only things I regret, and the only things I'll ever regret are things I didn't do. In the end, that's what we mourn. The paths we didn't take. The people we didn't touch.
Wallowing in self-pity was only warranted on rainy, dismal days.